Kyrie for New Orleans

There was a great lady, the queen of waters,
And those who knew her loved her and could not leave her.
On moonlit nights she sang to her children of love,
Her scent of jasmine and gardenias filled the air.

Those who had not seen her said her face was not fair,
But many who saw her were lost to her beauty.
Her long, dark hair ran down her back like a river
And her smooth skin held all shades of dusk and moonlight.

Strangers said she was ignorant of learning
But the sisters of Ursulines had taught her well
And she knew her mythology and literature,
Books of history and languages filled her shelves.

The ignorant said that she was a loose woman
But they mistook her for some gaudy foreigner
Or faulted her for adoring all her children,
For she loved the least of them with all her heart.

She was a good mother and many were her children,
Those of her blood and those of her heart were equals
And she taught them joy and music and cherished them;
They all found acceptance in her loving embrace.

One morning a terrible storm howled ashore
And, as the cruel waters rose and the wind howled,
She cried tears of blood as her precious ones were lost,
Screaming for her children, “Kyrie, Kyrie!”

She lay among the wreckage, broken and battered,
Her creamy skin bruised, her limbs withered and twisted,
All the doctors could say was “Bleed her,” and they did,
Exposing her heart, which was shattered but still strong.

On the cold steel table, she heard them arguing,
Each blaming the other for what had come to pass,
As she writhed in agony and mourned her children.
They could not hear her cries for help for their talking.

She had no more blood to shed and cried salt water.
With the last of her strength she whispered, “Kyrie,”
But there was no reply.